


Anticipate

by She Wears Red (SheWearsRed)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftercare, Blindfolds, Bondage, F/M, Oral Sex, Sub Cullen Rutherford, Vaginal Sex, Wax Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 20:20:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29424477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheWearsRed/pseuds/She%20Wears%20Red
Summary: He pushes past his judgment and his trepidation, every day, thefearof magic that has been dwelling deep inside, at the very core of him, things he wouldn’t even admit to himself in the deep, lonely night. He is not afraid of her, not afraid of her power, only in awe of her and of her body.
Relationships: Cullen Rutherford/Female Trevelyan, Female Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford, Inquisitor/Cullen Rutherford
Kudos: 11





	Anticipate

Sometimes he thinks he takes for granted the trust that has blossomed between himself and the Inquisitor over the last several months. There are few people Cullen confides in so much as he confides in Rosalind, and he very much understands the same is true for her. It has been a slow, steady dismantling of defense mechanisms, of walls built to ward off the hurt and heartache and harm that seems to run rampant in their world, of fortresses that likewise keep in self-loathing and inadequacies, personal demons. Cullen has never felt so laid bare before. He is disarmed and vulnerable and defenseless when it’s just the two of them in his twilit bedroom, bathed in nothing but the glow of candlelight. It is terrifying and exhilarating at the same time - she is both the fire that ignites his thirst and the very thing that quenches it. 

It is a constant effort, for the pair of them, to forget conditioned responses of detachment and hardness. He pushes past his judgment and his trepidation, every day, the _fear_ of magic that has been dwelling deep inside, at the very core of him, ever since Kinloch, since Kirkwall, things he wouldn’t even admit to himself in the deep, lonely night. He knows she has her own struggles, he knows she fights through them every day with a spine made of steel and a heart of embers ever ready to ignite and burn the very world itself down around her. He has learned that she must keep a very fine tether of control on her magic at all times, even if the slightest upset might make her eyes smolder and turn her breath to steam. How many times has she, in sudden petulance, set the draperies alight? But she has never lost control with him. He is her anchor, her calm sea after a storm, the arms she falls asleep in every night when sleep otherwise wouldn’t come. They are essential to each other now, as essential as breath.

So he is not afraid of her, not afraid of her power, only in awe of her and of her body - worshipful, reverent - he could skim every conceivable inch of her with his fingers, his lips, and still never be satisfied. He allows himself to surrender to her capable hands, her wicked mouth, her every whim. He’d go to the ends of the earth for her, do anything she asked.

It’s no great surprise how he ends up here, bare skin pressed to the cool ivory satin of her bedsheets. She takes her time undressing him, and the anticipation is killing him, eating away at him until his hunger is a living thing, curling low in his belly, unfurling like a predator. Only when they give way to baser needs and he becomes the prey does his ravening hunger sate itself on such indulgences.

They are both very good at being exactly what the other needs just when they need it. She just as easily takes control as she is reduced to a whimpering, quivering mess under his diligent ministrations. He enjoys the thrill of the chase, chasing, being chased - the thing that matters most is the inevitable collision, the consummation, the exultation of such perfect wholeness he feels when he is with her, holding her, being held. 

He watches with a heavy gaze as she walks away, his eyes ravenous. She wears a slip of a garment, a slash of dark red against pale, freckled skin, nearly translucent. He can see the curve of her thighs, her backside under the nightgown - if he could call it that - some unfairly expensive piece of lingerie sent by some Orlesian diplomat or other. He hadn’t the faintest idea what this gift is supposed to accomplish, but he can hardly find it in himself to complain.

When Ros returns, his mouth grows dry at the sight of her. He wets his lips, tongue darting out, and he doesn’t miss her eyes tracking the movement. Her breath seems suspended for a moment, and it thrills him to know she’s anticipating this as much as he is. He’s been waiting for this all night - impatiently so.

Her chest is flushed a delicate pink, the tops of her freckled breasts exposed by the plunging neckline of her nightgown. It follows the curve of her cleavage, and when the fire flickers just so in the hearth, he can see the shape of rosebud nipples straining against the gauzy, lace edged fabric.

She carries with her a thick red votive candle smelling of a heady blend of warm spices. Wrapped around one slim wrist is a white, satiny ribbon - one he remembers well for how many times he’s used it to bind her wrists. It has become a prized object, a memento tied to precious memories shared between them. Sometimes to tease him, she wears it in her hair and he can’t wait to use it on her the minute they’re alone. 

He can only imagine what she has in store for him. 

A small flame flickers at the head of the candle, wax pooling at the top where a wide channel has formed. Hot wax drips down the side, beading at the bottom as it cools, just before it can touch her hand. He wonders if she is using magic to control it, or if she is surrendering to the whim of natural fire. 

His gaze affixes to the candle as she sets it on the small table beside her bed. Then, he focuses on her. Her gaze smolders and her lips are parted as if in anticipation. He wants to pull her down onto him and take her right there, all reckless abandon and bruising kisses and wandering hands. He wills himself to behave, to sit still and be patient, knowing it’ll be worth it in the end even if he doesn’t know what game she wants to play tonight. 

She slides on top of him, thighs bracketing his, her nightgown rucked up around her hips. Beneath it, she wears barely just a scrap of lace, no doubt the coordinating piece to the ridiculous Orlesian nightgown; he can’t imagine she’d be wearing this under any other circumstance, which only makes this even more arousing.

He wraps an arm around her waist, hand drifting down the curve of her spine to rest on her rear. She kisses him, warmer than sunlight, sweeter than honey, and she gasps into his mouth when his hand slides between her legs. 

“Impatient, are we?” She pushes at his shoulders with one hand and seizes his wrist with the other. By the time he falls to the bed on his back, she has his wrists pressed together over his head. She is stretched out over him, straining to keep his wrists pinned while she straddles his waist. Her chest is a tempting few inches from his mouth. He tilts his chin and catches her nipple in his teeth through the fabric of her nightgown. He feels the tug as she inhales sharply, body shrinking away. “ _Maker’s breath_ …”

He nuzzles her breast almost apologetically but he still smiles smugly. 

“You can touch when you can behave,” she tells him, and winds white satin ribbon around his wrists until they are bound together. If he is upset by this development, it doesn’t show.

She kisses his forehead, his cheeks, presses her lips tenderly to his jaw and his chin, anywhere but his mouth. It leaves him aching, aching to feel the press of her mouth against his, to part her lips with his tongue and taste the sweetness of her, catch her full, pink lip in his teeth and nibble and suck and lick until she’s crying for more. 

It was not so long ago that he was unsure of himself, unsure of this - unconvinced that he might ever be worthy of her attention or her love. He was unpracticed, hesitant even, but as walls fell down and layers and vulnerabilities between them were stripped away to nothing, they fell into a comfortable rhythm. And then they left no part of each other unexplored. The passion and intimacy of it was heady, staggering sometimes, and there was a sense of completion he found there that he didn’t have before. She was an igniting fire, an inquisitiveness, a test of limits and an intensity he’d rarely seen; he was the strong embrace she fell into, the steady anchor, the guiding light. They were two perfectly matched parts of a whole, a lock and a key. Together, they shared deepest secrets and things Cullen never thought he’d feel or experience. It was easy to let go of fear, to let go of control, when he was in Rosalind’s delicate, trusted hands. 

He doesn’t mind her gentle, teasing chastisement, or the way she takes control of him now. It puts a kind of thrill through him instead, dark, warm tendrils of desire creeping into his body.

She slips out of her nightgown slowly enough that he knows she’s giving him a show, uncovering peachy, freckled skin inch by inch, baring herself to him. She slides her hands up the length of her thick thighs, her hips, the curve of her waist, over her full breasts, rosy nipples hardened with touch. His hands ache to touch her, to knead her breasts, her thighs, part them and bury his face against her. He groans and shifts against the satiny sheets.

She smiles at him, looking angelic, and climbs onto him again, kissing his lips with a feather-light touch. He scarcely notices the second satin ribbon until it is suspended over him, tracing his chest, his neck. He’s almost too wrapped up in her, the flowery smell of her hair and skin. She traces his lips, his nose, his cheek, giggling, and he can’t help but smile. She leans over him, and he’s suddenly thrust into darkness, engulfed by the sensation of satin over his eyes. 

He is not afraid, because they agreed to this. He had to reassure her several times it was what he wanted before she would go through with it. She was so worried that it would make things worse, dredge up old, terrible memories from the Circle. But no, this helped him, thrilled him, _aroused_ him. It turned the fear and the pain into something better, made him forget and replaced that feeling of helplessness with something else. He put himself, his life, in Ros’s hands, knowing just how much power she held in her delicate body, knowing she could harm him without so much as a glance, but trusting her not to, trusting her to help him heal instead. 

He feels her straddle him, the press of lace that is the only layer between them. She shifts and reaches over him, chest pressed against his, and _Maker_ , he can feel her pebbled nipples drag across his chest, an almost overwhelming sensation. She settles back at his hips, all delicious friction and heat. 

He smells it a split second before he feels it: warm and spicy. And then, a hot, liquid sensation on his skin. 

He gasps at the first drip of wax, a thin line on his belly. It is more of a surprise than a burn - she has taken great care not to hurt him. Another warm splash falls on him and his body reacts the same way, muscles tightening, breath suspended, lower lip bitten to keep another gasp at bay. He finds it doesn’t hurt at all - the anticipation is exciting, has him on edge. And then, she begins to roll her hips against him and it’s almost enough to undo him. 

Through thin lace, he can feel she is wet, slick heat, just for him. A groan escapes his throat, unbidden, and she splashes more warm, fragrant liquid on his chest. She draws it out, leaving him suspended, waiting for the next taste of this strange pleasure. Every nerve ending is on fire. More warm wax drips in a slow rivulet down his body, and then she stills, and he can hear her place the candle on the table, feel the absence of her atop him as she slides off him.

He wonders if she’ll keep him here like this and for how long, left waiting and wanting until the hunger and anticipation is too much even for her. For all her brashness and impatience, she could leave him waiting all night if only for the intensity and satisfaction. 

He feels her hot, wet mouth on him and _Oh, Maker_ … he is crying out, eyes rolling, so close to coming he is seeing stars. She devours him, using her hands and her tongue and her teeth, eagerly claiming him. She doesn’t stop until he is panting and shaking, glistening with sweat. 

“ _Please_ \--” his voice is gravelly, plaintive when she pulls away, she and her wicked mouth no longer giving him the release he craves. 

The wax has not yet dried when she slides her body onto his, and he feels it press between them. It’s a new sensation altogether, all this heat and soft, perfumed wax. 

His hands, fingers itch to touch her, straining at the fabric that binds his wrists. He knows he could break the ribbon if he really tried, or at the very least break free of it, but half the pleasure of this game is being at her mercy, surrendering to her completely.

Chest pressed to his, she trails her lips in hot kisses along his jaw, across his throat, down his neck, scraping her teeth against his skin, leaving a necklace of purpling marks along his collarbone. He shifts and groans beneath her, hips bucking against her, skin against lace. Then her mouth is on his and when he opens for her, she licks into his mouth. She reaches overhead and tugs at the knot holding his wrists together - the knot _he_ showed her how to tie - and as soon as his hands are free, they roam over every conceivable inch of her body. He squeezes her thighs, her ass, grabs her by the waist and lifts her until he feels her thighs bracket his face. He buries his face between her legs, kissing her through the thin layer of lace. He feels rather than sees her shudder, positions her as best he can by touch and not sight. When he moves the lacy scrap of fabric aside, he hears a tearing noise, and a faint, breathy giggle from Ros. “You broke it.” Her voice is husky, and he knows this is having its intended effect on her. She is bared to him now, and though he can’t see her, he knows her body well enough to know exactly where to wrap his arms around her thighs and spread them apart, pull her down against his mouth and feast on her like sweet summer fruit. 

He knows he could never get enough of this -- of _her_ \-- in this lifetime or the next. She is hot and wet and quivering, and he nips and licks at her, tasting her sweetness, sucking her clit until she is tugging at his hair and grinding against him. She comes with breathy moans, and he laves her pearl with the flat of his tongue until she whimpers and shakes, body bowing, kept up only by his grip. 

He releases his hold on her, slides her back down his body so her hips settle against his. She lowers herself onto him, soft kittenish mewls tumbling from her lips as he sinks into her. She’s so wet it’s almost obscene. It takes every ounce of self control in him to keep from bucking wildly into her, holding her tight to his body, fucking her until she’s screaming. But he wants this moment to be sweeter, sacred. She rocks her hips against him and he moans her name, holding her waist. 

She pulls the blindfold from his eyes, and he sees her for the first time in so many moments. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes glassy, lips bitten scarlet. Red streaks her chest and her belly, where now dried wax pressed between them marks her. Her breasts press temptingly outward with each rock of her hips as she rides him, nipples tight and rosy and so painfully perfect.

He pulls her down against him in a bruising kiss, unable to take it anymore - he has been patient enough for one night. His hand tangles into her hair, tugging just the way he knows she likes. He bucks up into her, losing all sense of anything except for the way her body feels against his, the way she tastes, the way her sex flutters around him just before she comes again. 

“ _Cullen_ \--” she cries out, his name tumbling from her lips like a prayer before she dissolves into a litany of moans. 

He feels the white heat of his own release unraveling him, and he sighs into her ear sweet nothings surrounding the reverent recitation of her name that always comes when he does. 

They lay like that for some time, entwined, until she finds the strength to lift her head and gaze down at him. She is still red-cheeked, eyes glazed but full of bliss, skin flushed in the way only the afterglow makes her. There is such a tender look in her eyes that he is disarmed. He pushes wayward copper curls behind her ear and she leans into his touch, smiling at him, looking celestial. 

There are some moments he wishes he could frame and keep in his mind forever - this is one of them. 

She dips her head to press a gentle kiss to his lips, and then he helps her off him. She checks him for burns and bruises, and seems satisfied that he’s unharmed save for the love bites near his neck. Those will fade in a few days and will scarcely be visible through his layers of armor - they are both aware the bruises will only be seen when they’re alone, a token of their lovemaking. 

Red stains both of their bodies, wide streaks down his belly and chest, dried wax cracked and crumbling in thick beaded ropes. Her breasts are smeared crimson and it strangely suits her. 

She brushes his cheek with the back of her hand, knuckles skimming over his jaw, and he busses the back of her fingers. “Are you alright, love?” she asks, voice raw.

“More than,” he tells her. “Bit messy, though.”

She giggles, and it sounds like silvery bells, making his chest warm, his head light. “Probably going to need new sheets.”

He looks around them, assessing the state of the bed, the rumpled sheets, stained deep red, caked with wax, fraught with evidence of their intimacy. “What will the neighbors say--” he teases, sounding scandalized. 

This brings more laughter easily to her lips, and he loves to see her this way - yes, naked in bed with him - but most importantly happy and with him. 

“You’re wicked.” A smile curves her lips and she kisses him again, their mirrored scars lining up just so. Before he can pull her into a deeper kiss, or back onto him, she sighs softly and murmurs against his lips, “Let’s clean you up.”

He is pacified only by the lovely view of her swaying hips and her ass as she retrieves a basin of water from the far end of the room. When she returns, she doesn’t hesitate to sit back onto his lap again, and begin to slide a warm, wet cloth across his skin. It feels heavenly, but it does little for his steadily returning excitement, and he groans, head lolling. “ _Rosalind_ \--” 

“Hmm?” Her tone is coy, almost innocent, as if she hasn’t the faintest idea of what she’s doing to him. 

“That is decidedly _not_ going to help with cleaning things up.”

She giggles again and he grits his teeth, closing his eyes to block out the sight of her sponging off his chest. “You’re wound up today.”

“For good reason--”

“And what’s that?” Her hand dips low to clean off his belly and he sucks in a breath around his teeth. 

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you,” he tells her. “All day.”

“Really?” she seems genuinely surprised but absolutely delighted nonetheless. 

“Truly.” He gazes up at her, taking her wrist in his hand with a delicate touch. Red tinted water drips onto the sheets, hardly a concern now that they’re already streaked crimson.

“That sounds like it must be very distracting,” she muses.

He hums his assent and repositions her, water sloshing out of the basin where it sits precariously at the head of the bed. He dips the cloth into the water and when it comes away clean, he slides it down one shoulder, across her collarbone. “You’ve no idea.” 

Water drips down her breast and his hand diligently follows, wiping her skin clean. A soft, sharp gasp catches in her throat as he brushes over her nipple, still hard and rosy. He washes her sternum, her other breast, dragging the cloth down her belly to wipe clean the spatter of red there. The color on her skin reminds him of the war paint she wears on her face, an association he’s not likely to forget soon. 

They make love again when they are both clean, skin still wet and glistening. They lie entwined, sighs soft, kisses sweet. She is always affectionate and remarkably serene in the afterglow, content to cuddle up next to him and lie tangled in the sheets for hours. This time is no different. She lazes with her head on his chest, a sleepy, content smile quirking at her lips.

He strokes her hair and kisses her forehead until she tilts her head to look up at him. “Was that alright?” she asks with the same hesitancy she always does when they try something new.

He smiles and a low humming sound rises in his throat. “Mm.” 

“You liked it?” 

“Very much so,” he reassures her. He strokes circles into her arm with his thumb, and sighs softly. “I might like to do it again sometime.” He doesn’t wait for her to respond before he adds, “Perhaps you should be the one blindfolded next time.”

He watches a flush spread to her cheeks, the way she ducks her head against his chest, giggling, flustered. He wouldn’t trade these moments for anything. “What do you think of that, hmm?” he squeezes her around the middle and she shrieks with laughter, squirming against him.

“I think that’s a punishment I would gladly accept.” She is red-faced now, smiling wide enough to show teeth, corners of her eyes crinkling. 

“I promise it won’t be a punishment.” He peppers her neck with sloppy kisses and she bursts into a fit of giggles again. He rests then, his forehead tucked in the crook of her neck. 

“I could stay here all night,” he tells her, kissing her collarbone almost reverently. 

“No one’s stopping you.” She strokes his hair, sighing contentedly. 

His breath is warm against her neck when he speaks, “They might come looking for you if you don’t make an appearance eventually.” 

“So I’ll tell them to fuck off.” She scrunches up her nose. 

His answer is a brassy bark of a laugh. “Of that I have no doubt.” 

He draws her close again, presses his forehead to hers and rubs her nose with his. “You always surprise me, Ros.” With a finger under her chin, he tilts her face toward his. “I love you so very much.” 

“I should hope so, after all that,” she tells him archly. 

He only laughs softly and draws her into a sweet, lingering kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen... if DA2 can have that weird underwear, Orlais can have have their own dumb frou frou-y version of lingerie. I'm absolutely tickled by the idea that Orlais (among other nations) sends "diplomatic" gifts to curry favor with the Inquisition, but Orlais specifically has no scope of what's a reasonable gift because _ugh_ Orlesians.
> 
> I'm a heaux for shameless kinky prompt fulfillment with a side of ~tender~ love. I fell in love with this prompt and had to write it. Cullen and the Inquisitor trauma bonding is really important to me and I think that would extend to their sex life too. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. Your support means more to me than I can express!
> 
> (I have a very bad habit of only kind of skimming over my work when I do final edits and I have no beta reader so if you do see some egregious error - please give me a heads up. I'm a tired woman.)


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